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you're coldyour feet glide over the linoleum of your kitcheen floor, and the sounds of your toes sticking to the ground echo in the dark. it is past two in the morning, and you're oh so scared of waking him. oh so scared.
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your eyes have almost adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, and you're reaching outwards, and upwards into the darkness. your hands meet what they were searching for, the cupboard above the counter, and you almost sigh in relief. you feel around for the cold, silver handle and pull it open, with just the right amount of force as to not make too much noise; you've had so much practise.
you feel over the second shelf and standing on your tip-toes, you wrap your hand around an upturned glass. your heart beats just a bit too fast to keep your breathing steady, and as you pull the glass forward, your feet give way and you slip. you fall backwards, your head colliding with the floor, and your arms flying backwards, the glass flying with them. it soars through the air and hits the wa